that weigh me down, heavy, that stop me standing.
No more sleep, just -
Wings, wings that burst through my back, out of the skin, torn, huge and rotting things, big black wings that weigh me down, heavy, that -
And then they’re gone -
Just like that.
Just Exegesis etched into my chest, my nails bloody, broken -
Et sequentes.
No sleep, just -
Dark heart of the night, dark corner of the room:
I check my watch, turn the radio down, pick the phone up off the bed and get a dialling tone, check my watch against the speaking clock, put the phone back off the hook, turn the radio back up, and I walk across the dark room to the dark corner -
Here sits the box from Mrs Hall.
I put the light back on and I open it:
Eric’s box -
Files, piles and piles of files, and a couple of cassettes:
A & B .
I take the Memorex cassettes over to the Boots portable cassette machine. I turn the radio off and put the first one in -
I press play -
I sit back down on the bed and I take out the files and begin to read as the cassette plays:
‘He beat the fucking shit out of me. Right there in the fucking car park.’
‘Eric, Eric
‘Don’t fucking Eric, Eric me. This cunt’s got my fucking car. Broke into my fucking house.’
‘Eric, Eric
‘I want Eraser done and done fucking right’
‘Eric, shut up and listen.’
‘No, you shut up and you listen: I’m telling you he broke into my house, my own bloody house, he’s driving around in my fucking car, and he knows everything. Everything. So you tell me what the fuck you’re going do about the cunt.’
‘Eric, I mean it. Listen: it’s done.’
‘Done? What is?’
‘Don’t worry about it. It’s finished.’
‘Finished? What about the car? Where the fuck’s my car?’
One of the lads’ll bring it round.’
‘So what happened?’
‘Eric, another time. Not now.’
I want to know?’
‘No, you don’t Eric’
Eject, flip, press play -
‘I’ve had enough. I can’t take anymore of this shit. First Eraser and now fucking Hunter.’
I stop reading -
‘Eric, you worry much too much.’
Same voices:
‘Peter Hunter’s coming and you’re telling me I worry too much. I’m already fucked up thanks to that fucking Fraser twat and now I’ve got to fucking talk to Hunter the Cunt.’
‘Don’t say a bloody word, Eric’
‘It’s alright for you, isn’t it? Not Leeds or Manchester, is it? Has to be sodding Bradford.’
‘Eric, for fuckssake.’
‘Look what happened to Porn Squad, – Moody and Virago.’
‘Eric, I know Peter Hunter and he’s not a problem.’
‘That’s what you say.’
‘Yeah, that’s what I say and you’ll fucking do what I say.’
Or what?’
‘Eric, don’t fucking start.’
‘No. I want to know what you’ll do if I’m not a good boy, if I don’t do what I’m told.’
‘Eric, we’re the only friends you’ve got. So stop fucking around.’
‘Or what?’
‘Or we’ll start fucking around with you.’
A pause, silence -
‘I’m sorry, I’m just upset.’
‘I know you are. We all are.’
‘I’m going to have to take a fall, aren’t I?’
‘No, you’re not.’
‘I can’t do fucking time, Richard. I can’t.’
‘It won’t come to that.’
‘What do you mean?’
‘We’ll look after you.’
Stop.
My heart’s beating fast, mouth dry -
I’m thinking:
June 1977.
I’m wondering:
Richard?
I’m writing:
Leeds? Manchester?
I say out aloud, say alone:
‘Saint Cunt.’
I take out cassette A and replace it with B:
‘She’s dead.’
‘What do you want me to say?’
A different voice, familiar -
‘I want to know who fucking did it?’
‘Eric, she’s dead. Just leave it.’
‘Was it Eraser?’
‘Eric, you’ve got to fucking get it together mate. Eraser’s saying it was you. They’re going to come and have a word.’
‘I can’t do this.’
‘You’ve got to.’
‘Was it him?’
